


1513

by Plenoptic



Series: Si Guarda Al Fine [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 06:45:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3968386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ezio and Machiavelli try to put the past behind them. Post AC:R</p>
            </blockquote>





	1513

Florence was uniquely beautiful that day. That was the only thought in Ezio’s mind. The sun was bright overhead, the air warm and fragrant. The world seemed gentler.

And he and Sofia had a child.

He allowed himself a smile, suppressing a skip in his step. Little Flavia was just two months old, a tiny, gurgling bundle of joy. Sofia, exhausted by a difficult birth, had been bedridden on and off, and her time was almost entirely devoted to the baby. Ezio had happily taken up her chores and errands. Anything to spend a little more time in the city he’d so missed during his time in Constantinople.

He was making his way through the Sunday market, pausing to let a shopkeep try and entice him with fresh-baked bread, when he heard it—a sound so soft he was sure, for a moment, that he’d imagined it. But he heard it again, more clearly this time, and excused himself from the baker to poke around the stall.

It was a little girl. She was sitting in the alley behind the stall, arms wrapped around her knees, wiping at her streaming eyes and sniffling.

“ _Piccina_?” She jumped when Ezio knelt down beside her, offering her his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said hastily, rubbing the back of her hand furiously against her eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing made you start crying?”

Her face flushed. “No. I’m fine, _Messere_.”

“Is there something I can help you with?”

The girl hesitated, tugging on the ends of her dark hair, darker than pitch. It fell in lovely waves around her slim shoulders, framed her pale face and made her grey eyes look like storm clouds on a moonlit night. There was something about her features that seemed familiar to Ezio.

“I’m lost,” she said at length, looking shyly up at him from beneath her fringe. “I was here with my cousin and my papa and I chased after a cat, and…”

“I see. I’m sure they’re very worried for you.” He extended a hand again. “My name is Ezio.”

There was caution in her eyes, but she placed her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet. “I’m Primerana.”

“How old are you, Primerana?”

“Eleven. How old are you?”

“I’m twelve.”

She scowled up at him. “No, you’re not.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You have a beard. I’ve never seen a boy of twelve with a beard.”

Ezio smiled, leading her from the alley and back into the market, keeping his hand wound tightly around hers, lest he lose her in the crowd. “How observant. Where did you last see your family?”

“Um.” Primerana wiped her nose on the sleeve of her dress. “The tailor, I think. Mama needed some shirts mended.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s expensive, you know. It cost a whole ducat.”

“Could your mother not have mended them herself?”

“Huh-uh. They’re Papa’s clothes for court, so they need to be fixed proper. Properly,” she corrected quickly, glancing up at Ezio as if to check if he’d noticed. “And Mama doesn’t sew well. Papa laughs at her for it.”

Ezio chuckled. “We can’t all have such talent. You should see me try to cook. Sofia could laugh for hours.”

“Sofia?”

“My wife. We’ve just had a baby.”

“Oh!” Primerana’s face lit up. “Mama’s going to have a baby, too! Her belly is so big!”

“Is that so! Do you have many siblings?”

“I have three brothers. They’re littler than me. I mean, younger. But Bernardo was born just a year after me, so he acts like he’s bigger and tries to boss me around.” Primerana stuck her nose in the air with a sniff. “Such effrontery.”

Ezio all but skidded to a halt, his grip on the little girl causing her to stumble back.  He’d just realized why she looked familiar. “Say… are you—”

“ _Primerana_!”

The girl spun on her heel, dropping Ezio’s hand. “Papa?” She scrambled around him, leaving him to turn on his heel and watch her jump into a man’s arms when he approached her at a run. “ _Papa_!”

“Christ, _piccina_ , where have you been?!”

“I got lost.”

Ezio stood and watched them, a slow smile spreading across his face. Niccolò Machiavelli kissed the girl’s head, dropping to his knees to hold her close.

“Don’t ever run off again, you hear me?” He took her face in his hands, fixing her with a stern look. “What would I do if something happened to you, hm?”

“I was fine, Papa.” Primerana turned around, pointing at Ezio. “That man helped me.”

Niccolò looked up, catching sight of the assassin for the first time, and his jaw dropped.

Ezio grinned, waving a hand. “Morning.”

“...Ezio.” Machiavelli got to his feet, taking a few halting steps before rushing forward and throwing his arms around his old comrade. “ _Ezio_! Jesus, man, I haven’t seen you in—not since—when did you come back from Constantinople?!”

“Very recently.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were back?”

“It’s been a busy year.” Ezio gripped the younger man’s shoulders, smiling. “It’s good to see you, old friend. Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected. It has been a difficult few years, and Florence has suffered much since you’ve been gone.”

“Uncle?” A young man jogged up to them, breathless. “I didn’t find—” He caught sight of Primerana and shouted, catching the little girl up in his arms. “There you are! Don’t disappear like that, I was terrified!”

“Sorry, Giovanni,” she said, her voice muffled by his shirt. “But Ezio found me.”

“Ezio?” Giovanni looked up, staring at Ezio for several long seconds before his eyes widened. “Ezio _Auditore_? The one who stopped Cesare Borgia, and saved the Apple? _That_ Ezio?”

“Is there another?”

Niccolò grinned, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “He’s the one and only. Ezio, this is my nephew, Giovanni Vernacci.”

Giovanni hurried forward, taking Ezio’s hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “It’s an honor, _Messere_. I’ve heard so much, I feel that I’ve met you already. Oh, and thank you for helping Primerana. She has a terrible tendency to wander—not so unlike her father.”

“Enough out of you, _nipote_ ,” Niccolò said, cuffing him on the back of the head. “Marietta is waiting at home, but Ezio, you should come for dinner. I want to hear about Constantinople.”

“Of course.” Ezio quirked a smile. “I wonder if I might bring my wife?”

“Wi—” Niccolò blanched, then burst into laughter. “ _Wife?_ Oh, Christ, this day gets better and better. Yes, bring her. I have to meet the woman crazy enough to marry you.”

* * *

 

“To be clear—this is _the_ Niccolò Machiavelli.”

“Yes, love.”

“The one who inducted you into the order, the former secretary to the Ten of War, the  one who formed up the Florentine militia, and the poet?”

“Yes.”

Sofia grinned, threading her arm through her husband’s, a bounce in her step. “I never knew you had such important friends.”

Ezio shifted Flavia in his arms, brushing his mouth over the slumbering baby’s head. “I befriended Prince Suleiman in Constantinople. Was he not important enough?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “It is one thing to be born to greatness, and entirely another to earn it.”

“Such wise words.”

“You know me.”

Machiavelli’s country home was a sweet little villa. Children’s voices rang out through the warm afternoon as Ezio and Sofia approached, and as they drew close, two little boys tumbled out of a stand of trees, breathless.

“I won!”

“I got here first, Lodo, so I won!”

“But if you hadn’t tripped me, I’d have beaten you!”

“But you didn’t, so there!”

A third boy stumbled from the shrubbery, no older than four or five. “Who won?”

“I did!” his brothers said in unison, glowering at each other.

The little boy wiped his nose on his sleeve, looking up at Ezio and Sofia approached and ducking behind one of his brothers, watching them with wary eyes.

Ezio approached them with a smile, setting Flavia in Sofia’s arms before dropping onto one knee and extending a hand to the oldest boy. “Good afternoon, _Signore_. My name is Ezio—I’m a friend of your father’s.”

“You’re _Messer_ Auditore?”

“I am.”

The boy lifted his chin. He had his father’s wiry frame and dark hair, but larger, softer eyes. “I’m Bernardo di Niccolò dei Machiavelli. That’s Lodovico, and—”

“I’m Guido,” the littlest boy piped up, hiding behind his older brother again when Ezio looked at him.

“Ezio!” Giovanni stuck his head out the front door, waving an arm over his head. “Welcome! Boys, come in and get cleaned up for supper. Guido, will you go get your father?”

Bernardo and Ludovico groaned, but Guido hurried behind the house with a determined nod. Giovanni stepped out to meet them, kissing Sofia’s hand when they were introduced.

“I didn’t know Niccolò had a nephew,” Ezio remarked, stepping into the villa.

“His elder sister Primavera is my mother. When she passed a decade ago, Uncle Niccolò was good enough to take me in, even though he’d just had a child of his own.”

A decade ago—they were in Rome, then, all of them, fighting against the Borgia. Ezio had known, somewhat vaguely, that Niccolò had married a girl right before leaving Florence, but he hadn’t known about the children, or about his sister’s death. How lonely those Roman nights must have been for the young man, days spent in combat and conspiracy, not knowing if he would ever return to his family.

Sofia squeezed Ezio’s hand, perhaps sensing his dark thoughts, and offered him a smile when he looked down at her. He kissed her cheek, letting his musings slip away. Those days were over. They were home now.

“Giovanni?” A young woman stepped into the hallway, trying to tame her long golden hair into a braid while simultaneously straightening her dress. “Did you tell the boys to—” She halted, catching sight of Ezio and Sofia. “Oh— _Messere, Madonna_ , I didn’t, um—welcome, you’ll have to excuse me, I’m—”

“You’re his wife?” Ezio asked, a little stunned. He somehow couldn’t see Machiavelli married, and certainly not to such a sweet-looking girl. “ _Niccolò’s_ wife?”

“I—yes?” She smoothed her hands over her dress. “My name is Marietta—oh, Lord, he should be here to introduce me, he’s so _rude_ —Giovanni, will you go to his office and tell him his guests are here?”

"I already sent Guido—"

"Well, you know he gets distracted—"

“I’ll go,” Ezio said, chuckling. Sofia stepped forward to introduce herself, and her husband slipped out the front door, heading around the house to the little cottage he’d seen on the walk over.

He knocked twice, opening the door when he received a brisk “Come in.” He’d fully expected the books, but not quite so many—every wall of the single-room cottage was lined with bookshelves, heavy volumes squeezed tightly against one another. Niccolò Machiavelli was bent over a desk beneath the window, scribbling furiously on a long roll of paper already half covered by his neat scrawl. His little son sat on a seat at his side, watching him write with obvious fascination, his mission to recruit his father for supper apparently quite forgotten.

Ezio stepped up behind his chair, linking his arms behind his back and peering over Niccolò’s shoulder. “What are you writing?”

The younger man jumped, whirling around and dropping his pen. “Christ! Ezio! Don’t sneak up like that!”

“You told me to come in.”

“Did I?” Niccolò ran an ink-stained hand over his hair. Ezio noticed that the raven strands were now peppered with grey. “I wasn’t thinking…”

“So?” Ezio prompted, stepping closer to the desk and tapping the page. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Machiavelli dropped a few books on it, getting to his feet and wiping ink from his hands before patting Guido’s dark hair. “It’s nothing. Just thoughts.”

“It didn’t look like nothing to me. More poetry?”

“No. It’s…” Niccolò shrugged, then winced and grasped his shoulder. “ _Dammit._ Sorry, son, sorry...”

“What’s wrong?” Ezio extended a hand to steady him, concerned. “Are you injured?”

“Yes—no. No, not anymore. It’s healed, more or less. Just stiff.”

“What’s healed?” Ezio pulled up a chair, brows furrowed. “Niccolò, what’s happened to you?”

Machiavelli was silent for a moment, his tongue in his cheek. He glanced at Guido. “Son, go wait outside. We’ll be along in a minute.” The boy nodded and slid down off his chair, stepping out of the study and closing the door behind him. Machiavelli scratched his scalp and turned back to his friend. When he spoke, it was so quietly that Ezio had to lean forward to hear. “I was tortured.”

“You _what?”_

“Someone put my name on a list of conspirators. I don’t know who, or why. I was imprisoned for a month, and during interrogations, they…” He trailed off, still rubbing his shoulder.

Realization curdled in Ezio’s stomach. “The _strappado?”_

Niccolò nodded.

“Jesus.” Ezio sat back, running  a hand through his hair. “After all you’ve done for this city… they… the _bastards_.”

“It’s been difficult here these last few years,” Niccolò said quietly. “The whole republic has been in upheaval. I’d been spending so much time abroad… I wasn’t here to keep an eye on things. It’s my own fault.”

“How so? Did you put your own name on that list?” Ezio demanded. “And you’re not the only one? This has been going on for some time? Who else has been wrongly tortured for crimes they didn’t commit? _Merda,_ this is my family all over again!”

Niccolò smiled sadly. “What’s done is done, Ezio. I’m home now, and Marietta is making sure I keep my health up.” He reached for his friend and jostled his shoulder. “We’re both home now.”

“Mm.” Ezio arched an eyebrow. “You’ve had a whole herd of children while I was away.”

The younger man barked out a laugh. “We both wanted a large family. We have the means, and now, I have the time, so why not?” Niccolò’s eyes softened. “They’re more precious to me than anything else in this world, those children.”

“And Marietta? She’s as sweet a girl as I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah.” Niccolò rubbed the back of his neck. “We’ve grown fond of one another. It wasn’t easy, in the beginning—our marriage was arranged, you see, and I left for Rome before Primerana was born.”

“So you love your children and you’re fond of your wife.” Ezio grinned, clapping his friend on the shoulder and apologizing quickly when Niccolò grimaced. “What more can a man ask for?”

“Supper, perhaps.” Niccolò stretched widely. “I’ve been writing all afternoon.”

Ezio rolled his eyes, getting to his feet and opening the cottage door. “Exhausting, that.”

“You try using your mind for more than thirty seconds at a time, you’ll see.”

“I employ my mind plenty, thank you.”

“I’ll believe _that_ when I see it.”

They bickered all the way back up to the house, Guido tagging along behind them, and it set Ezio’s heart a little more at ease. Just like old times.

Sofia, Primerana, and Marietta were in the kitchen, cooing down at Flavia, who was awake and gurgling back at them, kicking her little feet.

“Oh, no.” Niccolò froze in the doorway, staring at Ezio in horror. “You _reproduced?”_

“I did,” Ezio said, affronted. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Papa,” Guido said from his father’s arms, staring down at the infant in what appeared to be abject horror, “what’s _that?”_

“That, son, is our mentor’s spawn.” Machiavelli leaned over the baby and nodded his approval. “And female, thank God. We don’t need anymore Auditore boys.”

“Don’t be rude.” Marietta got to her feet, standing on tiptoe to kiss her husband’s cheek. “Niccolò, this is Sofia, Ezio’s wife.”

“ _Madonna._ ” Niccolò set his son down and kissed the back of her hand. “My condolences.”

“You’re horrible,” Ezio grumbled, plucking Flavia out of Sofia’s arms and bouncing his little daughter up and down when she whined. “Tell Machiavelli not to be such a _pieza de merda_ —”

“Ezio! Language!” Sofia scolded. “Marietta, how long until the baby is due?”

“Four months.” Marietta patted her swollen stomach. “I think it’ll be a boy.”

“Heaven forbid,” Niccolò said, pouring himself a glass of wine before sitting down and pulling Guido onto his lap. “We’ve had quite enough of those. It’s high time Primerana had a sister.”

“Only if you’re looking forward to pulling together another dowry.”

“If my father afforded two, we certainly can.”

“I want another sister,” Guido piped up, still watching Flavia. “I like Primerana more than I like Bernardo and Lodo.”

“Don’t talk that way about your brothers,” Marietta said, pinching his nose. Guido flinched and drew back, hiding his face in his father’s coat. Primerana leaned over to kiss her brother’s head.

Ezio sank into a chair, cradling  Flavia to his chest. She rested her chin on his shoulder and happily drooled on his shirt. Guido peered out to look at the baby, watching her apprehensively. “Giovanni seems like a good lad.”

“He is,” Marietta said, overriding Niccolò before he could so much as open his mouth. “He’s wonderful, he just adores the children—and he’s studying at the Studio, you know. He’s very smart.” She looked at Niccolò, frowning. “We should find him a wife.”

“He’s sweet on a girl in Pisa, love, I told you,” Niccolò said, shrugging. “Let him marry whomever he wishes.”

“Isn’t she some stonemason’s daughter, though? He’s your nephew, surely with your reputation we could find him a girl from a family of  a higher—”

“Oh, no, not this discussion again.” Giovanni came into the kitchen with the freshly washed Machiavelli brothers in tow, grinning and accepting the glass of wine his uncle offered him. “I meant to tell you, actually, that I bought a ring yesterday.”

“You did?”

“You _did?!”_

“Well, it’s settled, he’s marrying her,” Niccolò said, smirking at his wife.

“She has to say yes first.”

“She’s going to say yes, why wouldn’t she say yes? He’s intelligent, he’s a Machiavelli—”

“Actually, I’m a Vernacci.”

“—so she has no reason to say no.”

Marietta’s full lips turned downward. “What should we ask for a dowry?”

Niccolò arched an eyebrow. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, _Niccolò_ —”

“He’s marrying for love, let’s not spoil it with money.” Niccolò smiled and patted his wife’s cheek. “Hm? Besides, we’re well enough off for now. When Giovanni is done at the Studio, he’ll be able to make more than enough to support himself. Now, we’re being rude. Sofia! How do you _stand_ living with Ezio?”

“ _You’re_ being rude,” Marietta sighed miserably, and poured him another glass of wine.

* * *

They passed a quiet, pleasant evening over wine and Marietta’s cooking. Flavia didn’t fuss (for once), and gurgled happily on her father’s lap, grasping his fingers. Sofia and Niccolò hit it off at once; they carried the bulk of the conversation, bickering over books and snickering about the opinions of philosophers that Ezio had never heard of. The Machiavelli children grew bored quickly and escaped from the table, trooping out the back door, becoming curiously deaf when their mother called after them about not ruining their clothes. Only little Guido remained, listening to his father and Sofia’s conversation with an expression of intense concentration.

“Oh, yes, Petrarch is wonderful,” Sofia said, accepting a third glass of wine from Niccolò with an arched brow. “If you enjoy reading hundreds of pages of _pining_.”

“And what else is a man in love supposed to do?”

“You don’t suppose he could have moved on from her? She was married, after all.”

“Sofia, where’s your sense of romance? Does a man ever forget his first love? Does a woman, for that matter?”

“You certainly haven’t,” Marietta grumbled. Niccolò grinned and kissed her cheek.

“It’s only whimsy, dearest, only whimsy. We all pine for lost loves. It’s in our nature.” Niccolò made to pick up his wine glass and flinched with a gasp; it dropped from his hand and hit the ground, shattering. “ _Shit_. Sorry, Guido.”

“Don’t,” Marietta said, putting a hand on his shoulder when he leaned down to pick up the glass. “Let me take care of it.”

“It’s fine, I—” But he fell silent when she fixed him with a hard glare, sitting back and rubbing his shoulder while she got up and headed into the kitchen. “Sorry about—that.”

“No worries, my friend.” Ezio patted Sofia’s knee when she shot him a questioning look and turned to the little boy sitting at Niccolò’s side. “So! Guido. Are you in school yet?”

Guido jumped at being addressed and looked down at his toes. “Yes.”

Niccolò smiled and tapped him under the chin. “Look up when you’re spoken to, son.”

“Have you got a favorite subject?”

The child lifted his head and smiled shyly. “History.”

“History!” Sofia echoed, lifting her eyebrows. “How ambitious.”

“He’s very smart,” Niccolò said, stroking the boy’s dark hair. “Best student out of the three of them—though don’t tell Bernardo I said that,” he added, and Guido giggled.

“Bernardo’s good at the abacus.”

“That he is.”

“Yes, but which of them inherited your acerbic personality?” Ezio asked, and Niccolò scowled at him.

“I’m amazed you even know what acerbic _means_ , Auditore.”

“Lodovico did,” Guido piped up, and they all stared at him. “Um. He’s very acerbic. That is. Is what I meant.” He looked back down at his toes.

“I’m amazed _he_ knows what acerbic means,” Ezio said somewhat weakly.

Niccolò grinned and wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulders, kissing his dark hair. “I told you he’s smart.”

“Smarter than I was at that age,” Ezio said, and Sofia snorted into her palm.

“Smarter than you are now, _mio caro_.”

He rolled his eyes over Niccolò’s snickering. “My loving wife.”

“Congratulations, by the way,” Machiavelli said, indicating Flavia, who was snoozing on Ezio’s chest. “That’s a fine little lady. Are you quite sure you’re the father? I don’t understand how someone that precious could have come from something like you.”

“Watch your mouth, _cazzo,_ ” Ezio growled at him, and Niccolò grinned.

Marietta reentered with an armful of towels, interrupting what was sure to become a fight, and motioned for Niccolò to move his feet, waving off his offers to help while she mopped up the spilled wine.

“It’s fine, Niccolò, I’m perfectly capable of— _oh!”_ She abruptly straightened, both hands wrapped around her belly, and sucked in a loud breath.

Machiavelli jumped to his feet, catching her shoulders when she staggered. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The baby—”

“What about it?!”

Marietta laughed weakly, taking his hand and placing it against her swollen belly. “It’s kicking.”

“Kick—” Niccolò froze and looked down at her stomach, his eyes widening. “ _Dio mio_. Guido—come here.”

The boy slid off the couch, approaching his parents cautiously, and let his father take his little hands and rest them on Marietta’s stomach. His brows furrowed.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Just a moment,” Niccolò said.

And a moment passed—Ezio realized he was holding his breath—and then Guido yelped, his mouth falling open.

“Papa! I felt it!” He looked up at his mother and father, his little face aglow with excitement. “It _kicked_ me!”

“Actually, it kicked _me_ ,” Marietta said through gritted teeth, taking a seat on the couch and releasing a long, slow breath. “He’s so strong.”

“She,” Niccolò corrected her, bending down to kiss her cheek. “ _Baccina’s_ so strong.”

“Heaven above, you’ve already named her? I thought you wanted to name a girl for your mother?”

“I did—Baccina is her nickname.” Niccolò grinned over at Sofia and Ezio. “You want to feel?”

“Yes, Niccolò, please invite other people to touch my stomach…”

“It’s alright,” Sofia laughed, leaning into Ezio’s side and indicating their sleeping daughter. “I had more than my share of kicking with this one.”

“Yes, and it didn’t put you in the best of moods,” Ezio snorted, nudging Sofia’s ribs. She punched his shoulder in retaliation.

Niccolò laughed. “Gave him hell, hm?” He nodded at Sofia and winked. “Keep that up.”

* * *

Ezio inhaled, held it, and let it go, exhaling with the gentle breeze. Bernardo and Lodovico were running around the front of the palazzo, shouting and tackling one another while Primerana chased fireflies. Little Guido seemed content to sit on the porch and hold Flavia, very carefully cradling her small head in the crook of his elbow while Giovanni supervised. Marietta and Sofia were walking slow laps around the vineyard, their dark silhouettes just visible in the moonlight.

Machiavelli sank down beside him with a grunt, offering him a glass of wine, which Ezio accepted wordlessly. They drank in unison, staring out across the Tuscan fields. Firelight from Florence flickered dimly in the distance.

“We made it.”

Ezio hummed his agreement. “So we did.”

Machiavelli blew out a breath, raking a hand through his hair. “There were some nights in Rome when I… I never thought I’d make it back here.”

“We all had those nights.” Ezio tipped his head back, gazing up at the stars. “I still dream I am elsewhere—in Venice, or Rome, or Constantinople. There is no greater relief than waking up and finding myself at home with Sofia asleep beside me.” He looked sideways at his companion, smiling. “You were a boy of eighteen when I met you. Now look at you—a lovely wife and three boys of your own, with a sweet daughter to boot. You did well for yourself, Niccolò.”

“Mostly by accident,” Machiavelli snorted. He leaned forward to look at his son on the other end of the porch. “I’m glad you and Sofia decided to have a child.”

“We plan to have another once Flavia is grown.”

“Is that so?”

Ezio smiled and nodded. “I’d like a boy.”

“Be careful what you wish for. Guido is an angel, but those two—” He indicated his older boys, who  were wrestling in the mud— “will drive me into an early grave.”

Ezio barked out a laugh. “Serves you right for having four! Learn to control yourself!”

“I was happy to stop after Primerana, it was Marietta pining for another, and Giovanni kept asking about it, so we wound up with Bernardo and Lodo, and then—well, I suppose Guido was my fault.” Niccolò nudged him in the ribs, smiling his cat-caught-the-canary smile. “Have you thought about finding Flavia a good husband? We could conspire to marry her off to one of mine.”

The older assassin rolled his eyes. “She’ll never marry if I can help it. Besides, if one of your boys is married to my daughter, I’ll never be rid of you.”

“Papa!” Primerana hurried up to the porch, breathless, and held up a jar; four fireflies fluttered within, casting soft golden light across her beaming face. “Look!”

“They’re beautiful, _piccina_. But be sure to let them go.”

Her face fell at once. “Why? They’re so pretty.”

“Yes—too pretty to be caged. Don't you think?” He got to his feet and took her hand. “Here, I’ll show you. They’ll look even lovelier when they rejoin their friends.”

Ezio smiled after them. Bernardo and Lodovico met their father and sister halfway, bouncing on the balls of their feet, and all three children exclaimed in delight when Niccolò took the lid off the jar, all four insects floating up and out into the dark night.

“Here.”

Ezio looked up to find Guido standing before him, Flavia still bundled in his arms. “Ah, thank you. Is she fussing?”

“No. She’s so quiet.” Guido lowered the baby into her father’s arms, biting his lower lip and brushing a lock of wispy hair off the infant’s brow. “And little.”

“She’s too young now, but I hope you won’t mind her coming to play when she’s older.”

Guido bobbed his head up and down. “I’ll make sure Bernardo and Lodo aren’t too rough.”

“Thank you, _Signore._ I’m sure she’ll be in good hands.”

The boy blushed and patted the baby’s head. “Bye, Flavia. _Messere._ ” And then he turned and ran down the lawn, joining his father and siblings at catching fireflies.

Ezio looked down at his little daughter. She was awake but quiet, blinking up at him, starlight reflected in her dark eyes. He shifted her in his arm, pulling her close and brushing his mouth along her head.

“I can’t promise to be here much longer, _piccina_ ,” he murmured, adjusting the blankets around her tiny form and hugging her to his chest. “I’m very old to be a new papa. But let me tell you something about our brotherhood. We make kind and loving friends, and we are connected by bonds stronger than blood. We are connected by our ideals, and by our commitment to give you as bright and beautiful a world as possible.” He lifted his head, watching a laughing Niccolò try to walk with Bernardo and Lodovico affixed to his legs. “When I am gone, and you feel lonely, _piccina_ , come here.” Ezio smiled and kissed her little head. “Then, at least, you’ll never be alone.”

 

 


End file.
